


In Which John and Lestrade Go to the Pub

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Oh Lestrade, You're such a goose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade makes some awkward inferences.</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which John and Lestrade Go to the Pub

_Lestrade:_

The pub is warm, cozy even. Ma used to say there's nothing warmer than a mother's heart or a man's favorite pub. Hell, that saying sums up my childhood more neatly than all the baby pictures in our scrubby little Brixton row-house combined.

Ah, there's the man. "John!" I cry, standing up and clapping his shoulder. John looks well, better than he did at any rate. But then again, last time I'd seen him we'd both hit the 48-hour mark of pretending we could run with the likes of Sherlock Holmes. No food, no sleep, don't know how the man does it myself, but me and John- we're not cut from that cloth. Well, the sleep, I guess. Bloody hell, I don't remember the last time I got a full night's sleep. But a man's got to have a warm meal every night, and I won't budge on that one. "Left your better half at home?" I tease, because it's so easy to make John go pink.

"Better half?" John says, taking a seat, and I follow suit. "And here I thought we were nearly friends, Lestrade."

"Ah, hell, let me fix it, then: first round's on me." I gesture to the barmaid (pretty lass, fit little arse in a tight pair of jeans) and order for the both of us, ignoring John's grimace (we'll not be sipping pints tonight, not when I'm looking at the strong possibility of being able to sleep off a hangover, oh no) and slapping a tenner on the bar. "Sherlock uncovered anything new on the-?"

John raises his hands and purses his lips. "I'm not talking work tonight, not a chance. So, your choice: birds, or footy."

Easy decision; I've not had a decent shag in so long I've forgotten what the point of that dangly bit between my legs even  _is_. "You favouring Liverpool tomorrow?"

x

Five whiskeys and eight pints apiece later, and John and I are very nearly pissed. Well, John more so than me, but the man's so small and it doesn't help that I only ever drop into bed with the aid of a nightcap. I've got a better tolerance, I guess. No gains for me there; just means I've got to spend more to get the same place. I reckon I've thrown half my paycheck at that little serving wench (and my mobile number, too, though I don't think she pocketed it so much as  _binned it right in front of me_  as memory serves, but then again I'm bleary-eyed and old and no, memory doesn't always serve as well as I'd like, so who knows).

We're near enough Baker Street that I offer to walk the man home. He seems appreciative, if maybe a little flirtatious (and the last thing I need is damned bloody Sherlock getting all stroppy with me over his boyfriend's mooning), and I'm feeling pretty good, so I just go on and say it: "I guess you and Sherlock have probably already talked about, y'know, his past and whatnot."

"Not much, no," John says, leaning on me a bit.

That's something of a surprise, but still… "Well, I reckon he's at least told you about, y'know, the thing. With us. I'm glad you took it okay, anyway. You're an alright bloke, John, and just what Sherlock needs."

John's quiet for a moment, and then he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stares at me, his eyebrows raised. "Wait. Wait a second. Thing with…did you and Sherlock…no.  _No_. Really? No."

Oh, bugger. "No! No, nothing like that," I backpedal, my hands spread in front of me. "I only meant…well, he must've told you. About. The drugs, and all that."

"Oh." John laughs, rubs a hand down his face. "Christ. No, he's not said much, but I've figured out bits and pieces here and there. God, I honestly thought you were implying…"

"Well, he only made a pass at me the one time, is all," I say, which immediately feels wrong. John's looking at me wide-eyed (and jealous? I can't tell) so I add, with a bit of haste, "But he was completely off it! No harm meant, I'm sure. I told him straight, and he never tried anything like  _that_  again." Because John's still staring at me blankly, I go on a bit desperately, "Honestly, he was so high he probably didn't even realize what he was up to. Honest. Now he's cleaned up, I figure he's put it out of his mind."

"Sherlock came on to you?" John looks so honestly astonished that I wonder if maybe I've got this whole thing pegged the wrong way.

"Well, yeah," I say slowly, "only I figured he'd told you as much, saying as you two are…" I clear my throat, make a hand gesture I'm probably going to regret in the morning.

Poor John looks fit to choke. "Good God!" I can't tell if the man's going to laugh or cry. "Holy…Lestrade, no, sodding hell, no, we're not-"

"Oh, God," I groan, and now I'm really laughing, tears coming from my eyes. "I thought…hell, the whole damn division thought…"

"Why does  _everyone_  assume Sherlock and I are shagging?" John's laughing too, and nearly doubled over with it. "Christ above. I can't believe…" He stands up straight, obviously trying to get his breathing under control, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Unbelievable."

"Apologies, mate," I mutter, trying not to start up laughing again. "Best leave the deductions to the ruddy consulting detective, eh?"

"Yes," John grins, starting off towards his and Sherlock's flat again, "let's."


End file.
